Tribute to Perfection
by MisterGray
Summary: My tribute to Albert Wesker, greatest of the RE characters. Simply an assignment of his taking place shortly after RE, and before RE2 and Code Veronica. A side story if you will. Did I mention I like reviews? I do.
1. Chapter 1

Tribute to Perfection  
  
((Jon here. Ahoyhoy. Anyways, Wesker's so damn cool I just had to do something on him. There's bound to be flaws, as I'm not a practitioner of  
RE law. You have to go to Harvard and pass a few exams if you want an official decree stating that yes, you do indeed know so much about RE that you're no longer deserving of veneration, but only of pity. Ahem. Moving on  
then...))  
  
He raised the simple black pistol's alloy sights up to level the barrel with his oncoming foe, a shambling monstrosity that some chose to call a 'zombie'. He'd soon be calling them relatives. Of course, all of this was unknown to Mr. Albert Wesker, whose task at hand was simply to stop this once-human in its tracks. It was perhaps ten feet away at this point, and Wesker's train of thought was still at the station. Yet to leave for its destination, which was the idea of concentrating on pulling the trigger to end this thing's semi-life. Hmm. My, it was ugly. The aquiline nose was rotted, and a pale shade of whitish-green. Looked as if it were to fall off at any second, in fact.  
  
Seven feet away. And my, what ugly facial features. The left half of its face had been clawed right off; from the way the marks started at four fingertip-sized gouges towards the top of its cheekbone and dragged down horizontally towards its mouth, Wesker half-suspected the stupid thing had been eating itself. At five feet of distance betwixt himself and this putrid excuse for an enemy, he took note of its clothing. A near-intact laboratory coat, stained with brownish splotches here and there. Dried blood, no doubt. From the smell however, he had guessed that somewhere along the stages of pseudo-decomposition this thing's bowels had lost all control and fallen out along with its waste. Disgusting at best. Two feet away, and nearly ready to grab Wesker's arm, the thing almost grinned. Or perhaps that was just the left half of its cheeks being gone that gave the effect. Wesker was too busy concentrating on the tiny details of those teeth to really notice the big picture, it was hard not to notice how they jagged in all different directions. It looked like a yellowish rock formation, with all sorts of chips and dents here and there that resulted in some of them being blunt and others being razor-edged. Either way, it looked to make for a nasty bite wound.  
  
Bite wound? Oh, yes. Bite wound. What would happen if he didn't do what he did. Wesker somewhat decided that the thing was too close to waste a perfectly good .45 ACP (Automatic Colt Pistol, for those previously uninformed) round on this sack of flesh. In compliance with this, he removed his left hand from the pistol (Two-hand grip, but of course) and lowered it. Rather, he simply used its sheer snail pace to his advantage quite well. Darting forth whilst ducking forward a bit as to avoid those bony fingers, he did what nobody ever does to a zombie- move into melee combat. The thing opened its jaws in anticipation, a long pillar of semi- acidic saliva holding up between its upper and lower jaws. Wesker, who slammed his right foot down before him to cease his advance, immediately swung his right arm up, bending the elbow towards the monster's jaw. The pistol in his hand added a good deal of extra weight, which came in handy when he slammed the butt of the thing into the poor creature's chin. Underhanded pistol whip, literally as well as figuratively, seeing as the creature was too ensnared by its own infected condition to stand a fighting chance against it.  
  
Now Wesker didn't know his own strength, because he found it a bit of a pleasant surprise when the entire lower jaw drove itself upwards through the roof of the zombie's mouth, ridged teeth protruding right into the stem of its brain. The sound effect to accompany was rewarding, something reminiscent of a pile of bones being smashed to bits over a giant wet sponge with a sledgehammer, maybe a few ketchup packets tossed in for that extra 'splorch'.The last thing on the creature's mind was it's teeth. Of course, that was easily enough to finish the thing off for good, which Wesker realized when it flew back and upwards a good meter. It landed on its crooked feet for a moment, before slumping forth, rotten tongue hanging out and nearly licking its killer's dulled black boots.  
  
Wesker, who was now busying himself by wiping off the butt of his pistol on a piece of cloth he carried around for getting unwanted residue off of his weapons and person, merely arched a dark blonde eyebrow. "Well. Who would've seen that coming", he stated to himself in a dulled monotone, secretly proud of his accomplishment. Must've been a lucky hit, since he didn't think he was all that powerful. Humans had their limitations, after all. Ah well, no reason to go over the fine details of why it happened, the point is that it happened regardless of such things. Hearing more disgruntled moans and groans echoing down the dim corridor, and now spotting two dark figures trudging down the pestilent halls with rusted metallic walls doused in a mixture of various bodily mixtures, he holstered his sidearm. And what a sidearm it was. A SIG-Sauer P220, a stocky but never-burdensome black pistol possessing an aluminum frame for weight reduction, and currently outfitted to hold a magazine carrying seven of those large .45 rounds he had selected for this task.  
  
The man removed his right hand from the pistol holster on the right side of his hip, and instead grasped the single-edge bowie knife handle coming from the leather sheath on the left side of his hip. He simply pulled, and out came the blade, facing the same direction as the smaller knuckles on his hand. You know, the ones beneath your big knuckles. The bottom of the handle was near his thumb, in his classic knife-fighting position. It combined power and speed, along with finesse, at the cost of some range. With that, he relieved his body of all tension, arms hanging down by his sides idly.  
  
And so he waited for them to come, contemplating the long day that lay behind him, and the longer night ahead. 


	2. Chapter 2

((Wow, I began with TWO chapters this time. Woo-fuckin' hoo.))  
  
Typical schedule. Alarm rings. That loud, electronic buzzing sound that nobody in or out of their right mind can stand. A hand, curled into a fist, slammed down upon it. No effect, it kept going. Another two vigorous pounds and Wesker finally hit home at the snooze button, anything to end that cacophony. He sat upright about then, glancing at the clock. Still groggy, he had forgotten what time he set the thing for. The hands pointed at seven, and the sunlight pouring through white linen near the windows seemed to agree. Wesker was awake, and surrounded by lavish alabaster walls and paintings that he found tasteful. The room was divine.  
  
Sunlight. Horrible, horrible sunlight. His eyes always had been especially sensitive to that particular element of being diurnal, but it seemed especially prominent lately. Almost as if burning his eyes, he could imagine the pools of black that were his pupils coming to a boil when being presented to rays of natural light. And so, as tradition dictated, he unclenched his right fist and rummaged around the end table near the king- sized hotel room bed. Pad of paper, no. Pen, no. Another pen, certainly not. Chocolate mint wrapped in some sort of paper-foil combination, maybe later. Ah, there they were. Shades. He immediately closed his eyes and donned the things, unreflective opaque lenses of the blackest shade with rims to match. He'd had them ever since... No, best not to think about that. His mind seemed to be struggling with the events that took place at that wretched Spenser Mansion a short time ago, and even trying to delve into his near-photogenic memory archives resulted in something almost painful.  
  
Never having been one to wear much whilst sleeping during summer, Albert Wesker threw off the white bedsheet without hesitation and placed his feet on the carpet. Soft carpet. Very pleasant to one's feet first thing in the morning. It always paid to shell up the cash for the nicer suites that these establishments had to offer. He reached down into the duffel bag at the foot of his bed, and produced five objects. A tannish-khaki sort of shirt, pants of the same coloration, simple black boxers, and two socks. All of which were quite comfortable, only the best would do for one as rich as he. One who had worked as hard as he to get that rich in the first place.  
  
After changing, he strolled over to the room's mini-kitchen area, passing a decoratively framed mirror on the wall as he did so. Couldn't help but toss a glance at his body, and upon doing so, a thought floated through his head. "Another fine day to be Albert Wesker," he stated aloud before another thought occurred to him. This one resulted in a very miniscule frown. "...May be subject to change." He added in after a pause, knowing that the day's assignment wouldn't be a pleasant one. They rarely were.  
  
Whilst treating himself to a Danish complete with some sort of peach filling, he glanced over the file he had open on the thin, black laptop on the table. A powerful, efficient, and light machine provided by his employers. "I really don't see why you people have to monitor me like you do," His voice muffled thanks to his violation of that don't-talk-with-your- mouth-full rule every mother enforced when he was young. "I don't think you'll get much from watching me eat." His unseen gaze was directed towards the tiny square of especially smooth black plastic towards the top of the computer's monitor, knowing the technology of his employers he had figured it to be a camera perpetually transmitting when it was open. This conclusion arrived at out of paranoia. Paranoia that had, without a shadow of a doubt, saved him countless times.  
  
He skimmed over the text idly. "Blah blah, enter facility, something something, find source of outbreak, and..." Ah, now here was something new. The makers of this particular Umbrella Corp. facility were smarter than the average bear, and had designed a measure of security more discreet than a giant explosion that almost always failed in some way or another. He grinned as his eyes went over the next part of that sentence, "Activate flow of acidic gas through the entire facility as to purge all within. Now there's something clever they came up with. That Umbrella, always thinking of my convenience." Of course, he wasn't working for Umbrella any longer, and his new client had more in mind than simply destroying the facility.  
  
"But of course. The ulterior motive." He scrolled his gaze over the true objective they had in mind for him, which was surprisingly without detail. "Find and retrieve object within the 'safe room' at all costs..." Must be yet another damned virus sample. He found himself questioning the practicality of all these viruses, a good bullet to the head typically does the trick to rid one of their enemies. Then again, bullets didn't self- replicate. Either way, the document mentioned something about getting there before Umbrella agents and cleaning up the mess before they could salvage anything. Should they have gotten there first, he knew his task's difficulty would multiply exponentially.  
  
He closed the laptop and shut it off, no longer wishing to be observed by his clients. Tossing the rest of breakfast down his throat along with the contents of his glass, that being milk. Nothing wrong with milk, it does the body good. He somewhat ran over that thought in his head as he traveled to the window, passing the mirror again along the way. He had no choice but to admire that body, those muscles of his. Capable, but not overbearing. He looked like a tough guy, an assassin, but certainly not a bodybuilder. They seemed stronger lately, or maybe it was just his mind shamelessly complimenting himself. No matter.  
  
Albert Wesker parted the curtains, and pushed the windows open. Resting his hands upon the sill, he leaned outside somewhat, and inhaled a deep whiff of that smoggy air. The view of the cityscape from the twelfth floor suite was amazing, to say the least. Los Angeles would never know that Umbrella ever existed, thanks to his future efforts. Or at least that was the idea. 


	3. ChappyTehr Thuhree

((Oh, right. This also takes place before RE2. I'll get back to you with an exact date one of these days, honest. Anyhow, this here is a space-filler.  
Skip it if you like.))  
  
He recalled suiting up for the mission on the ride there, most of which was spent in the cool dampness provided by the back area of a commercial cargo hauling truck. His ride was little more than a sixteen-wheeler with some gear in the back. His gear, in fact. Solo mission, but of course, so whose else would it be? In the bumpy dark he changed out of his civilian clothing and into his assignment gear, which consisted of a black kevlar vest providing all-purpose protection for his torso, black fingerless gloves that he found quite stylish, a snug black T-shirt and of course some pants to match the color of the day.  
  
My, what a great deal of pockets and such that vest had. He had to commend the designer's taste for practicality as he slipped in his tools of the trade; a few spare clips for his pistol, a fragmentation grenade or three- he took note of how they make those quite small nowadays, a few very miniscule pieces of C-4 explosive as it was the best key one could get, and he was reaching for the few flashbangs his employers had provided when something occurred to him. What good would a burst of light and a loud noise do against something idiotic enough to stumble around and consume any flesh it could get its grimy fingers upon?  
  
About that point a rather grim thought hit him. Perhaps there were other bio-weapons in the facility. More than just zombies. A hazy flashback of the vengeful efficiency of the 'Hunters' hit him just then, and he reached out a hand and grabbed a few of the tiny flash grenades. Better safe than sorry, they hardly added extra weight anyways. Lastly, he found himself placing the small radio device in one of the empty pockets near his chest and plugging this into the hands-free transmitter he found himself liking quite a lot. Very convenient. It had a single earpiece on the right side, and a microphone that he bent as so it was the ideal distance away from his mouth. Very practical for radio communications during difficult times.  
  
Of course, it donned upon him that wearing all black was hardly discreet during the day, in the middle of the desert. Which, after twenty or so minutes of driving, was where he assumed the truck was. However, he had gathered that this particular facility, like most of the others, was beneath ground level. And, without a shadow of a doubt, had numerous power and electrical failures thanks to the diseased employees. The camouflage was by no means intended for the bio-weapons, it was meant entirely for dealing with Umbrella's personal clean-up crews.  
  
His train of thought was disrupted by the vehicle slowly coming to a halt, which he assumed after nearly half an hour solid of driving without rest, meant his queue to disembark. He slid the sheet metal door of the truck open, being greeted immediately by the morning sun beating down upon him and the seemingly ancient road. He gave silent praise to the invention of shades once again before going over one final check of his person: Knife, check. Pistol, check. Ammunition and various grenades and such, check. Cleaning cloth, check. He rummaged around one of his pockets for the white rag briefly, just making sure.  
  
A voice buzzed into his right ear immediately after he flipped the radio on. "The facility entrance can be found maybe half a mile to your north, at the foot of the ridge up ahead. Most people assume it's a derelict mine shaft, the entrance you'll be taking has been sealed up for years- or at least looks like it has. Contact us if anything comes up." Wesker simply hopped out of the vehicle, and slid the door shut behind him. Upon hitting ground he began walking north towards his destination, hearing the vehicle roar away into the distance behind him.  
  
A long and bothersome walk ensued, its sheer annoyance amplified by his black clothing and the sun's knack for being drawn to that particular color. What really took the cake however, was what he discovered when he arrived. There was no door. Well, there was, but it happened to be in several pieces and blown to high hell about the nearby area. Granted, it made entry easier, but it was the matter of who had entered before him.  
  
"Simply divine..." Wesker found himself muttering this with sarcasm heavy enough to crush those faint of heart. Lovely. Umbrella's team had shown up first. 


	4. Chaptah the Fourth

((Sorry about the filler material. No, really. Okay, you got me, I'm not.  
Back to the nitty gritty.))  
  
Of course he expected the entrance to be trapped, and delicately poked around the most obvious places. His senses proved correct once again, they had expected him, and set out a few things to greet him. Mainly trip wires- quite harmless in of themselves, significantly more treacherous when set to trigger explosions stuffed full of shrapnel. And, not a surprise, the latter happened to be what he was up against. They were rigged horizontally only, apparently the team didn't have enough time to set up a whole grid.  
  
The things were low to the ground, hard to detect, tied into crevices and the like. Somebody quite adept must've been on the job. Wesker took note of how very difficult it must've been to set the four or five wires up, let alone arm the triggering device they were attached to. The explosives themselves, he guessed, were probably at the top of the cave where it was almost perpetually shadowed. Metallic shards raining down on one's skull was easily enough to dispose of any careless enough to be caught in such a childish booby trap.  
  
A few well-placed steps and that element of his break-and-enter mission was complete, he was now within the cave. No signs of life or much else being there, no footsteps, nothing of the sort. His dull boots silently trudged along, softly crushing the debris below him with a slight 'crunch' sort of sound. No worry, he doubted any of the team had been left behind to deal with him. They were, after all, just that- a team. Moved together, hunted together, and left together if all went well. A lone operative however, had the advantage of not being slowed by anything. Much easier to look after one person than five to ten, or at least Wesker's logic seemed to arrive at that conclusion.  
  
Either way, a short walk down this near-black natural corridor proved useful at long last when he found exactly what he had sought. An elevator, quite a large one in fact. No doubt leading to the bowels of the land, where Umbrella carried out their experiments of questionable ethics. It looked like it was meant to carry quite a heavy load, a sturdy alloy platform that could probably fit a truck onto it. A console that went up to Wesker's waist seemed to control its functions, which were rather simple. Up, down, stop, go. He was about to step onto the platform when the obvious hit him like a brick. It had to be rigged. The same team responsible for his unpleasant discovery at the entrance had no doubt worked their magic here, too. His mind quickly established that there must be an alternate way down- a ladder, most likely. Too deep for stairs.  
  
Without delay his calculated gaze swept across the miniature stalagmites and stalactites poking out of the cavern's floor and roof respectively, specifically about the area next to the elevator. Nothing to the left. To the right there was an array of rocks, more natural stone formations, and- ah, there it was. A steadfast red ladder, bound to the cavern's left wall quite well. It seemed to feed down into a perfectly square vertical tunnel carved out of stone, no doubt there long before the elevator ever was. Checking this for similar traps and finding none, Wesker allowed a brief smirk to play across his features before returning to the glacial wall of indifference his face typically sported. Down the ladder he went, plunging into what would no doubt be a place filled with disease, infectites, and all manners of Umbrella's horrid creations. He sighed to himself. Anything for power.  
  
((Ha ha, I lied. More filler material.)) 


	5. Chapter 5

((Right then. Let's get started. Here's where I can start to have some fun  
with things and pick up the pace.))  
  
Gloved fingers slid across the lower half of the sub-machine gun's muzzle, bracing themselves for use of the weapon. At the same time the eye hidden behind a gas mask's tinted right eyepiece was aligning the weapon's sights with a gradually-moving target, specifically slightly below the nose of an oncoming infectite. "Mine." A voice with an indifferent chill to it proclaimed softly, becoming a bit muffled through the mask's filters. The small hole of the sight combined with expert hands guided the muzzle of the weapon right above the zombie's anxious and greedy lips, which were already near falling off of the poor former-scientist.  
  
Ba-dum. A single, surprisingly soft shot echoed through the dim research room. The bullet tore out of the MP5A2's muzzle and into the zombie's face, the small spiraling indents carved within the barrel of the firearm placing a subtle twist upon the nine millimeter Parabellum round that struck its target with as much cold efficiency as the gun's user. The bullet smashed through bone and tumbled around right through the beast's brain stem, exploding out the back of its head in a surprisingly clean display.  
  
"Nice shot, Mr. Death." Spoke a voice from behind him. Without even a nod to acknowledge his teammate's remark, he immediately kept his weapon at the ready, full plastic stock braced against his right shoulder comfortably. He heard footsteps behind him but did not react, as he was listening for movement in front of and around him- behind him was the cavalry, and they were hardly to be feared. All far less skilled, all just rookies compared to he. The former-zombie had, by this time, slumped back against the wall and slid into its final resting place.  
  
His left hand slid forward, and twisted a small notched ring near the barrel of his gun. This activated the gun-light, which provided a solid circle of illumination wherever he chose to point his weapon. Peripheral vision allowed him to take note of the others on his team doing likewise, the single-file line of ten men pouring in through the open door behind him; scanning over every detail of the office-like room.  
  
Desk, papers, chair, pen, recently-slain zombie. Another boring area, may as well voice how pointless the expedition into this particular room is and- now what have we here. His calculated gaze swept across a supply closet door in unison with his gun-light, and a grim smile crossed Hunk's features beneath the protective mask. He tentatively reached out his left arm, a hand clad in a black insulating glove allowing its fingers to slowly close in upon the doorknob. A twist of his wrist, followed by a rapid pull. A moan and hasty movement greeted him from within the closet's cluttered space.  
  
His gun-light's illumination proved it to be a mere shell of a former human being lunging towards him with voracious hunger, blind embitterment binding the thing to its hollow excuse for an existence. Another instant passed and four more lights were centered on the being, yet before any trigger finger could even twitch, Hunk's right elbow had flown out, his left arm gripping the sub-machine gun's muzzle for extra strength. Perhaps a fraction of a second later the hungry dead had found itself colliding with the solid stock of Hunk's weapon, its nose and upper jaw being pressed back by the driving force of his attacker's elbow.  
  
On Hunk's end of things however, there was little more than a satisfying 'crunch' as his weapon proved itself more steadfast than the walking dead by plowing into its target. The zombie's nosebone and most of its upper teeth were sent farther back into its head than they ever should be, rendering its only method of flesh consumption absolutely useless. Less than a second passed from when the combat began, and the infected one already found itself slamming into the back of the closet, another victim of Hunk's tenacious survival skills.  
  
Upon watching the enemy smash without control through a few broom handles and land in a seated heap with its back to the wall, Hunk decided to finish the job. He wasn't being paid to play with these things, nor was it a wise idea. Toying with one's foe was a sign of carelessness, as well as arrogance. And the arrogant always fell. As a pathetic moan escaped the zombie's half-functional lips, it was forever silenced by a Parabellum round slamming into its hairless skull.  
  
Hunk simply shone his light about the closet for possibly things of interest, and, finding none, swiftly turned around to face his dazed backup. "N-nothing here. Let's move out", the captain stuttered before giving the signal to exit the room. Hunk left last, pondering a few things about his weapon idly. Granted, the Heckler and Koch MP5A2 sub-machine gun was clichéd, but for a good reason. Sturdy, lightweight, reliable, effective. He tossed the idle thoughts away, now considering a matter of far more importance.  
  
It had been at least two hours since their entry, with relatively few undead- and no explosions or screams coming from their entrance point, the cavern mouth. This meant only two possibilities. Either their rivals had yet to be deployed, or the competition was already on its way; and more importantly, skilled enough to avoid traps meant for fools. The first choice seemed illogical at best.  
  
His nerves gave him an action, and without delay he performed it. Hunk deftly executed a 180 degree spin movement, his light blazing down the corridor, a circle of illumination landing shakily on the wall of the sharp bend they had recently turned down. His gaze jumped from point to point in the office halls, quickly identifying all spots they had visited. Mainly empty rooms, only a few actually had life- if one could call it that, within.  
  
Nothing. Well, not nothing. Just paranoia. He turned around once again, noting that the team had carried on without him. How very observant of them. He hurried to catch up, and fell back into his place as they braved the halls ahead.  
  
But he knew that the enemy- the true enemy, was somewhere. Watching, waiting, or hunting. Maybe all. Maybe none, and he was just being foolish. Nonetheless, Hunk promptly agreed with himself that no careless actions should be taken on his part from here on out.  
  
((I just had to add him. He's too cool to leave out. If Wesker is RE's greatest character, then there's not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that Hunk is a close second.)) 


	6. Ch 6

((I'll get back to Hunk later. Until then, here's some more Weskage.))  
  
Wesker's back remained firmly pressed to the wall; he had found himself nearing a corner when suddenly something lit it up. A gun-light or flashlight, no doubt. So his suspicions were correct. According to what his ears gathered, two rounds were discharged, and the team easily had over five members judging by the amount of footsteps he heard milling about. The light neared his location for a moment before passing away, he realized that were it not for his quick reaction one of his limbs may have been spotted.  
  
The solitary footfall pattern caught up with the group's, which was fading away slowly. They really seemed to be taking their sweet time, this particular cleanup team. Wesker had found his way to them quite easily, they were hardly the sneakiest of people. Upon his descent to the first level he found it to be some sort of office building layout. No doubt where fiscal matters were dealt with, finances and such being a key part of Umbrella. The front company, although just a farce, was easily profitable enough to keep Umbrella's hidden motives flooded with green. Either way, he was greeted by a few faces on the floor leering up at him, each belonging to a zombie of some sort. Early ones, apparently not having been infected for too terribly long seeing as they still had most of their skin. Simply grimy, whitish shells of their former selves- still quite mobile compared to the later stages of their kind. The team however, saw to it that it didn't matter either way, by placing at least five rounds through every zombie's torso.  
  
Except for a few key corpses here and there. Some of the former-employees, he had found, were taken out by a single shot to the forehead or somewhere close to it. Somebody on that team was conserving ammunition, preparing for the worst no doubt. As well, somebody was a very good shot. And those two things meant that somebody was a survivor. And that meant a certain somebody would be harder to silence. He decided from then on out that this team was to be tracked with more caution than he had accounted for previously.  
  
He simply followed the trail of bodies from there on out, following his nose along the stagnant trail of spilled blood. The zombie count was surprisingly low. They all seemed to be menial office workers, Umbrella was no doubt lying to the people about the true purpose of their workstation; Wesker's guess was that good pay and benefits silenced any inquiries. Either way, most of the not-so-fresh dead were garbed in casual office clothing. White collared shirts, slacks, and stilettos that seemed to be a popular trend among the women.  
  
And he certainly heard gunfire. Typically bursts, but every so often there would only be a single round fired and all commotion would cease. He increased his pace, judging by ear that they couldn't be far ahead. As things progressed, the bloodstained office walls and corridors reeking of rotten flesh stench began to grow dimmer. Power failure in action. He had just come across a sharp turn in one of the halls when it happened- he was halfway through passing the abrupt right turn when his peripheral vision spotted something. Rapid movement, and a flash. Too rapid to be any zombie. His left leg, being the foremost, launched him backwards quite hastily. Luckily for him, quite silently as well. Stealth was by now instinct to Albert Wesker, who would by no means accept the prospect of dying to a common cleanup crew sent by his old employer. He flattened his back to the wall that made up half the right angle corner, and waited calmly for the light that was shining upon the spot he was a half second ago to disperse. As soon as this was done, he looked down to find that his hand was placed upon his holster. Handy instinct.  
  
After that, tracking resumed as normal. Of course, he hid out in rooms along the way, just as a precaution against random searches he expected. Duck behind a file cabinet here and there, slip into an empty room every so often, nothing too inconvenient.  
  
His plan for disposing with the Umbrella squad accordingly was a simple one. Allow them to pave the way, and if the true creations of Umbrella didn't pick them off, he would. They would have to split up somewhere along the lines, and that's when he would stalk and strike. The beauty of it was that not a single shot would be wasted by him until absolutely necessary. This was good, as he didn't pack much ammo anyways. The mission was, after all, to secure an object and activate the purging system. Slaughtering freaks was just a fringe benefit.  
  
Either way, in his efforts to follow the enemy, he noticed a few key details. For one, they all moved so very slowly. It was as if they were on some sort of downers, which seemed to be the most reasonable explanation. Perhaps a side-effect of some combat enhancement drugs in testing. Their pace was far below the sort of speed required for clearing out an area. Even their individual movements seemed slow; from pulling triggers to opening doors, everything was so languid. Then again, so were zombies. Rushing about carelessly was the worst strategy possible.  
  
Their uniforms seemed to suggest the air was still ripe with the virus, as they were fully decked out in all black with body armor along their torsos. The gas masks were the dead giveaway, if they were still wearing them then there must've been good reason to do so. This lingered in his mind for quite some time, the possibility of being contaminated and gradually breaking down into another mindless, artificial ghoul. He made a note to radio his clients about that sometime when it was deemed safe to do so.  
  
Until then, he found himself quite content watching the zombie count increase whilst the soldiers' ability to keep cool declined. They were becoming erratic, sometimes firing wild whenever one of the infected came too close. Ammunition was no doubt running low. All except for one of the ten. One of them seemed to be colder than a glacier, simply using ruthless efficiency and dead-on aim to tackle any foe. Which, so far, was nothing more then common zombies. Wesker knew however, that as they grew closer to the lab, that such things would change. He was keeping his eyes peeled not only for the squad's conditions, but ventilation shafts and the like. Can't be too careful, after all.  
  
Mainly however, his attention was centered on that one soldier. In a brief instant, one of the gun-light's beams swept across his chest, revealing something right next to the Umbrella logo upon the right breast pocket of the armor. Print letters, some sort of nametag no doubt. All it read was "HUNK"  
  
Yes, surely this 'Hunk' fellow would prove to be more useful to him than any of the others. With a grim smile of satisfaction enjoyed only by himself, Wesker continued to slip between shadows and track his clueless opposition. 


	7. Chapter 7

((Oh, right. Forgot to do this. Well, time to remind the world that Hunk  
and Wesker are godly I do believe.))  
  
He was relatively sure that he had wasted only five rounds, and downright positive that each of them amounted to a clean kill. The other nine however, were beginning to reload whenever the chance presented itself- which was rare, since as they neared the lab the infected began flooding towards them from the most random spaces. Three piled out of a lonely broom closet as they were traversing a corridor, upon letting his teammates waste valuable metal on them he found himself wondering if the virus altered behavior as well. Why else would they be in a broom closet? Hunk took note that the other members of the team failed to comment on a crucial detail- all three were dressed in scientist's regalia. He contemplated requesting permission to search the area for anything suspicious, but decided against it. They were here for a clearing, not buried treasure and hidden passages. Still, the prospect was intriguing...  
  
As well, he found that none of his squadmates were bright enough to try simply mashing a zombie's skull to pulp if melee combat was necessary. Had somebody told everyone but him that only bullets were effective? For chrissakes, they weren't very fast or deadly unless they got in a good chomp- he had began thinking that a baseball bat could be the most effective weapon he could get his hands on. His idle contemplations were cut off as the captain announced that they had found the elevator. "Well no shit," Hunk mumbled to himself. It was pretty obvious that this was indeed the elevator. The halls were still clean- save the newfound undead residue blotched all over them, and the large metallic elevator style doors in front of the captain seemed to verify that yes, this was indeed the lift.  
  
A hesitant command issues by the captain followed, "Alright... Take up firing positions, there might be something in there." Hunk lifted an eyebrow slightly beneath his gas mask. That was the first intelligent thing the cap'n had done all day. He obliged at his own pace, slowly taking a few steps back, and aligning three things: His eye, the gun's sight, and the lift doors. Safety off, paranoia on, ready to rock and roll. The other members of the team did more or less the same thing, bracing themselves against the wall and taking up firing positions. The captain smacked his gloved palm against the call button, and treated himself to a hasty retreat that lead him to the back of their makeshift formation.  
  
The air circulating was the loudest thing in the room in the three seconds it took to follow, and it's a wonder nobody was crushed to death by the tension. Hunk however, Mr. Death, seemed to have an atmosphere of calm about him. Gave one the impression that if he weren't wearing a gas mask, he'd be smoking right now. The elevator chimed through the silence with a resounding 'bing' sort of sound, and the doors slid open. What followed was a hail of gunfire signifying the true amateur status of most of the team, atleast seven members of which had unloaded half a clip each into the elevator's cold metal walls. If there was anything in there, it was dead as a doornail now. Sadly, however, there was nothing in there. The captain shook his head, Hunk chuckled at the idiocy, and seven smoking barrels cooled down.  
  
Another command issued, "Batista, Smithson, Regares. We can't all fit in there, so you three head down to the bottom floor first. Come back up once you've cleared the lobby area, understand?" Three unanimous, albeit nervous, nods followed as a response. The three men each stepped out of their positions, and into the abused machine. One extended a gloved hand and gently pressed the only button available, labeled 'B1'. The doors slid closed, and the gentle humming of the elevator cables drowned itself out.  
  
Thirty seconds passed, and the captain sighed.  
  
A minute passed, and he shook his head.  
  
A minute and a half, and he was anxiously tapping his foot, secretly jealous of the one called Mr. Death's knack for keeping calm. "Alright, we can't wait for them to clear it out any longer. Somebody hit the call button," These words promptly followed by the deed being done by the nearest clean-up crew member. Hunk took the liberty of granting himself a few spacious steps towards the rear, fully knowing what was about to happen. He suspected the captain did too, judging by the nervous few baby steps he did in the same direction.  
  
What followed was pandemonium. The elevator doors slid open, and the first thing to emerge from them was a gaseous stench accompanied by one thing and one thing alone... Infected. There must have been atleast five, no, six of them- each anxious for a fresh meal aside from the three they just helped themselves to...The three soldier's bodies, of course, were hollow shells of their former selves. Chewed and mangled, their armor made to withstand bullets and not bites. The throng of bloodthirsty undead burst out of the first crack of open space that the spreading doors allowed, instantly making prey of the two squad members nearest them. Fueled by desperation and raw animal instinct, they made a mad dash and plowed into the two hapless men before they could crack off a shot.  
  
The screams were bloodcurdling. Shots rang out from everywhere at once, the two being feasted upon firing madly into the ceiling in panic. The other three began spraying full-auto fire on anything in front of them that moved, not caring about the safety of the two being devoured- they were as good as dead anyways. Metal ripped through flesh in countless places, most of which were non-vital, as proven by the four zombies that waded through their own kind, and a cloud of metal flying at 3,000 feet per second, towards their assailants. Such sounds they made, like every aspect of death summed up into one horrid staccato cacophony. "Nnngggh," the tortured groans echoed through the hall as two of the firing squad members backed up to reload, and one made the mistake of not doing so. A limping infectite speedily encroached upon him, and more or less slumped forth onto the man...Dead. Hunk had taken the liberty of setting up calm aim, and planted a single round through it's skull.  
  
The captain fired off a three-round burst at another one of the damned, reducing its heart to a few shreds of rotten muscle in a fraction of a second. The recently-assaulted soldier simply kicked and scrambled to get out from beneath the wretched ghoul upon him, while Hunk took the liberty of seeing to it that two certain bullets were placed in two certain craniums...That of the duo of lumbering zombies, of course. He was quite tempted to end the lives of his chickenhearted comrades, however, but they would do that for him undoubtedly. Still, two more remained, and having just dislodged the spinal cords of the two team members closest to the elevator, they were ready to expand their meal. One on the left began to exit its kneel, but was promptly placed back into the corner by atleast eight shots delivered by one of the men. The other was put down in a similar fashion, as much of a waste of ammunition as it was.  
  
One of the men had finally gotten out from beneath the zombie's dead body, and the other two had finally finished reloading. They took the time to regain their bearings, and look over the chaos that had taken up the last 4.3 seconds of their lives. Hunk found only one thing shocking, that the three men hadn't fled in terror by now. He half-hoped they would've, he much preferred working alone anyways... and as pseudo-competent as the captain was, Hunk knew deep down that he was just another failure destined to perish. He ejected the metallic magazine from his submachine gun, produced a few Parabellums from one of the many zippered pockets on his suit, and popped them into the clip idly. He coolly jammed the thing back into its proper place, and without second thought, waded through the bodies and into the elevator. The glacial stare radiating out from beneath his tinted eyepieces suggested to the other three, and even the captain, that they follow or be left behind.  
  
"...A-alright. Let's go." Even the captain was shaky in body and voice, and so he accompanied the other three men into the lift. Hunk shoved aside Smithson's body with his right foot, making room for the captain to stand. Under his mask, he grinned at the dry humor. Without waiting for an order he pressed the button, closing the doors, and dragging four other men down into the hells beneath along with him. 


	8. Chapter 8

((Weskage.))  
  
Wesker had continued to vigilantly track his opposition, taking special note of 90% of the team's low ammo count. He periodically fell back to ensure not being detected, remaining a room or two behind them at all times. As of yet, they had done all of the work for him. Now that was kind of them, wasn't it? Either way, his stony gaze fell across something unusual while traversing the place- three zombies clad in researcher's regalia, their corpses collapsed outside of an open broom closet. This warranted further investigation, without a doubt. He decided on making a final check of the team's progress before returning to check over this oddity.  
  
That is, until he heard the stereotypical 'bing' sound of what was no doubt an elevator greeting him, and following that came what should've been too much gunfire and infected moans to fit into the span of five seconds. It managed to cram itself into that tiny window of time somehow. He allowed a minute to pass, and upon eavesdropping upon the captain's orders from around the corner, leaned slightly to his side and took a glance at the remains of the scene. There had been quite a fight. Two humans mauled, six zombies annihilated. The floor was literally covered in a thin layer of blood.  
  
For some reason, it was right about then that the man began to contemplate sex. Hot, wild, uncontrollable sex. Passionate, but certainly rough. For the longest time, he hadn't had any. Now there was something awry. For his age, Albert knew that he looked damn good- must be all the operations like this keeping him in shape. He ruled out the possibility of his looks being the cause of the problem, although somewhere towards the back of his mind it surfaced. Capable, he certainly was capable, but it surprised even Wesker how little confidence he had. Not in just himself, in anything. He made a note to re-analyze his level of pessimism one of these days.  
  
Something else then crossed his mind. Why hadn't he taken any time in, oh say, getting a damn date? Fear of rejection, perhaps? No, not just that... Some sort of fear of failure. That was the one thing he hated most, failure. Especially within himself. Falling short of a task so simple would be a blow from which it would take quite some time to recover. Nonetheless, no sex. Why not? Not even a one-night-stand sort of situation? There were plenty of girls attractive enough- and stupid enough, to settle for that sort of thing.  
  
His mind halted right then and there, going over its wording. 'Settle for'... Had he contempt for those who were so shallow? Impossible. No way in hell he was just your average Joe, possessing that wretched craving for love that most of the human race shared. Still, things were always rather lonely for him since childhood, and he needed something to fill that emptiness-  
  
At that point, he expunged the entire thought, disregarding it as an idle waste of his time. Albert Wesker needed nobody, end of story. "Yeah. Tell yourself that, see how far it gets you..." This muttered to himself quietly before he returned his focus to the task at hand.  
  
It occurred to him that taking the elevator was about the riskiest and most idiotic thing he could possibly do. For all he knew they had posted guards at the elevator to guarantee a safe route out of the place, and as green as they were, they were easily capable of hearing the descending cables and reporting it immediately. There was no place to take cover in an elevator, and as much as he would love to pull off a few generic action flick stunts, Wesker knew that practicality was his key of surviving this place. He ruled the option of taking the elevator out completely.  
  
This lead to backtracking, specifically over to that mysterious broom closet. Wading through three stagnant corpses and the semi-coagulated blood they had shed revealed, of course, a hidden door. A man-sized square consisting of compressed steel, with of course a large handle attached to the top seeing as the thing was on the floor. He had the feeling that normally this sort of emergency escape device would have been covered by janitor gear, but in their final desperation the three diseased men must've scrambled for an exit without bothering to cover it behind them.  
  
It occurred to Wesker then that the vile stench of this entire compound was no longer bothering him. Must've been one of those things one gets used to with time, the mansion reeked of it fairly, but this place was teeming with the tainted air. Once again, he found himself praying that the virus was no longer airborne. Hm. Well, not even praying- hoping, really. Wesker was hardly what one would call a religious man, after a long hard look at the men he worked for and even himself, he more or less ruled out the possibility of there being a kind and noble god. If there was, Ozwell Spenser would have been dead long before he could unleash this hell upon the Earth.  
  
Shoving all thoughts aside he pulled on the hatch, which yielded what he had expected. A vertical crawlspace of concrete construct, and a simple alloy ladder leading down the tiny space. With a sigh and a promise to himself to vacation somewhere quiet after this, he began to slide down the ladder.  
  
The last thing that broke the surface of his thoughts before doing so was, once again, sex. And the mansion. That Valentine girl was a buxom example of womanhood, and even that runt Chambers was rather attractive. Great ass. Although the rest of her was a bit underdeveloped, there was just something alluring about her sheer naivety... No, no, no more thinking like that while on a mission. Especially not fantasies about those two harlots who just didn't know quite when to die.  
  
He grinned as the light spilling into the closet vanished from view. Well, just one couldn't hurt... 


	9. Chapter 9

((Oh, right. Wesky boy wasn't turning the less-used gears of his mind to  
the zombies, no no no. That was just on general principle. I mean shit, think about it. Middle of nowhere, no real human contact, and no sex for  
god knows how long. I'd be thinking about fucking Jill and Rebecca senseless! And I think that's something that we the people can confide in. But mind you it wasn't triggered by zombies, nor were they about zombies.  
Ech.))  
  
Ah, now there was that comforting 'bing' sound again. Hunk slid his weapon to the ready position, taking pride in how comfortable the stock felt against his shoulder. The doors slid open, and the anticipation was beautiful. Who knows what might await them? Hunk, having taken part in previous Umbrella cleanup operations, knew that the company had a sort of thing for altering nature...Far beyond the ways of your average zombie. And the labs would be exactly where to find this sort of thing. Sadly however, the hall before them was bare and relatively clean, save the fluorescent light that had fallen to the floor. "Alright boys," The captain's voice sent his train of thought flying off the rails. "We've entered part two of what's hopefully a two-part operation. Now that the upper level is cleared, it leaves us by default to work through here. Since the upper levels had the most workers, this should be cakewalk compared to it. Just a few scientists lurking about."  
  
Hunk simply chuckled to himself, hoping that the captain didn't really believe this bullshit he was feeding them. Anybody who had seen the lower levels, the more clandestine areas, of any Umbrella facility saw things that were not meant to be seen. The captain was an experienced man in this sort of thing, albeit a stupid one, so surely he must've come across these little 'skeletons in the closet' at some point. The worst of them was that freakish cross between what seemed to be a skinned gorilla and a frog. What did they call it again? A Huntsman, or something? Well, no matter. These rookies would only slow him down, and so he felt the need to change this.  
  
"Captain." His tone, the pinnacle of indifference, made its way through the gas mask's filters. "What is it, Hunk?" Hook, line and sinker. "The hall splits apart up ahead. There's too much ground for one team to cover. Why not form two teams? Divide and conquer." The Captain paused, thinking to himself. "No. It's too risky," The man's reply was short and simple. As well, it was the best thing Hunk could've hoped to hear. "Oh? But I thought you said it would be just a few scientists lurking about... You yourself admitted it, we've got no worries, so why not get out of here as soon as we can? I think the troops here agree."  
  
Several anxious nods from the three remaining squadmates verified this, each of them perpetually scanning the empty corridor. The Captain's tone was less than fearless, "Alright, fine. Willman, Hunk, you two go right. Everyone else, come with me." As Hunk suspected, the man's fear for his own credibility had overridden the concern for the general safety and welfare of his squad. Now just to get rid of this Willman fellow...  
  
As the two rounded the corner and things immediately began to look more hellish, lights flickering on and off with contaminated residue blotched on the walls and floor, Hunk devised a simple plan: Tell Willman to go somewhere that would get him killed. A bit clichéd, but it would have to do. The formerly-white walls were plagued with doors everywhere, surely one of them held greater perils than the common zombie for Willman to combat. It was up to luck to decide if this was the case or not. It occurred to him that killing Willman manually would be far easier, but it was also true that this would be... What was that word... Ah, yes. Un-sportsmanlike. "Willman, take every door on the left side. I'll take the right."  
  
With that, Hunk began heading towards the corridor's right side and the three doors contained somewhere along it at different points respectively. He was cut off by a shaky voice. "Hell no. I'm staying with you." Well holy god damn. The man, in accordance with his name, had a will of his own. No matter, it could still be done. "Alright, fine. If you can keep up." Not about to start waiting for another's compliance, Hunk smashed down the wooden door with two well-placed kicks to its handle, which looked less- than-useful afterwards. He stormed into the room, which was fairly well- lit, and immediately scanned about for any obvious infected, as well as any hidden ones. Signs of movement under desks, sounds from closets, even a brief search of the ceiling revealed- What the FUCK was that?!  
  
A horrific thing composed of what looked like zombie and insect sewn together sat, its six large foreclaws dug into the ceiling near an air duct, stared down at him from beneath a rotten human skull. "Chimera," He blurted out almost instinctively, having seen things about these in some of the more classified reports. He leaped back, ready for action, and it was a good thing he did so since the wretched beast dropped down to the spot where the operative was split seconds ago. He turned to face it, gun at the ready, only to find that its quick movement had cut the distance he just made in half. His MP5A2's barrel lowered a bit to try and aim at the crawling monster, but it was already too late.  
  
Too late to get in the kill, that is. Willman took it after unleashing five furious rounds upon the thing, which, after a squelched whine emerged from the beast, killed the Chimera. Hunk stepped gingerly over its twitching carcass, getting the feel of an astonished look from beneath the other's mask. "W-w-w-," the other began, to which Hunk responded by cutting him off. "The Captain lied to us. Well, to you. This is where they keep the experiments. Although the zombie count will be down, the freak count's about to skyrocket. Come on, we've got rooms to clear."  
  
Hunk uttered a few silent curses to himself. This guy was naïve, and a rookie, but he was quick on his feet. Just shooting him now would be easier, and it would gain him more ammo- which was going to be vital down here, where creatures were meant to withstand a barrage of rounds and keep going. "Fuck sportsmanship."  
  
Hunk whirled around, and without even thinking pumped a three-round burst into Wilson's collarbone. Instant death, only a gurgle of a dying scream emanated from the man. Hunk hated to do things so blatantly like that, especially to such a talented rookie like Willman, but his own survival was the most vital thing here. He gathered every last trace of ammunition from the man, and even took his holstered sidearm. A common Walther P5, which he recognized as being a smooth, somewhat stubby, and rather easy-to-use sidearm that had too many safety features for his liking. Still, it was easy to use one-handed, which would be vital. He undid the dead man's holster, and strapped it onto himself. Thigh holster, and at the very least a comfortable one. He inserted the secondary weapon into its proper place, and began to head for door #2. 


	10. Chapter 10

((I'd like to start this chapter by saying that I was thinking about zombie  
knife fights one day...This is relevant, I swear. You'll see.))  
  
Sliding down the seemingly-endless ladder with thoughts of Jill and Rebecca in his mind, S.T.A.R.S. brats they may be but they were still quite to his liking physically, Albert Wesker received a rather rude awakening from his daydream. Namely, the ground. He landed rather quietly, soles of his boots gently pressing to the composite tile floors of what must've been a lab room, his half-gloved hands gently uncurling their fingers from around the two poles that formed the ladder's sides. He turned around, finding himself to be in a room that was surprisingly well-lit, perhaps even a bit bright...And that was with his shades on. He figured that normally, the place must be blinding.  
  
A quick scan of the area revealed that it was medium-sized, enough to comfortably fit four or five researchers and allow a decent workspace for each. Rather roomy in fact, as all the various medical shelves and such were pressed to the wall, with a few tables scattered about the area. For a post-infection laboratory, the place looked grand. That is, until his eyes fell across the reason that no human or monster would dare touch the place. Directly in front of him, perhaps a good thirty feet away, was a chamber built into the wall. A containment chamber, in fact. The front of a long vertical tube of alloy construct, with a small porthole for viewing the creature within at about head level. The window was far too murky to get a decent view. Knowing full well about the evil beings Umbrella kept inside of these containers, he figured it would be best to leave this room immediately.  
  
However, something caught his eye before he could even make a single step towards the door to his far left. The small light built into the containment chamber was red. And he knew what that meant. If it was green, it meant that all systems were in check and the electronic locks and other measures of quarantine were in working order. If it was yellow, then there was a flaw or error. If it was red...  
  
And then the pounding began. Sounding from the internal area of the chamber was a banging of what sounded like fists, making a steady metallic -thud- against the weakened containment door. He raised his pistol, taking up his typical two-hand grip, right hand taking trigger duty while left steadied his aim to a deadeye shot. He aligned the pressed aluminum sight of his weapon with the chamber's porthole, and fired off a clean shot. The noise was terrible, a cracking of powder and metal against metal in perfect unison with the round that tore out of the weapon's barrel. It spiraled through the air at 1,100 feet per second, and punched a neat hole into the small viewing window. The pounding immediately ceased, and a combination of sickly orange nutritional fluid and brownish blood spilled out. It kept pouring for quite a while, leading Wesker to believe that the tank was full of it.  
  
Then he heard it- whirling around to his left side towards where the slight -kink- sound came from, he discovered that the shell casing from ejected from his gun had only just hit the ground. Unusual...It seemed like a lot more time passed than just a second. Either way, he holstered the pistol idly, and began walking towards the tank. Paydirt. On a table next to it was the 'plans' of the creature within, so to speak. He flipped through the file idly, looking for pictures. What he found was a divine example of Umbrella craftsmanship.  
  
Six feet and four inches of fury, this thing looked like your average zombie. It was, however, something far from it. Blessed with an especially sleek, lightweight frame, the gray-skinned terror was made for assassinations. It was intelligent. A lesser Tyrant. He scanned through the various features of the thing, reading aloud to himself in a mumble. "Codename: Achilles...Brain located in heel? Now that's unusual, must be made to confuse enemies. Hm. Clever. Possesses incredible regenerative-" He cut himself off right then and there, bolting backwards and resuming his former stance. He drew his knife instead, however.  
  
As he had suspected, the thing immediately burst forth from its chamber, the thick steel door sent flying atleast five feet as the orange fluid flooded the room. A lean creature stepped out, and only then did Wesker get a good look at what it truly was. Mottled gray skin, wiry build, wrapped in treated gauze from neck to toe like a mummy. Must have some sort of skin condition that has yet to be fixed by the R&D team. It grinned, revealing a mouth full of small, pointed, and shockingly white teeth that fit together like a puzzle. Its long, apelike arms ended in fully articulate hands, each possessing...Weapons. Six-inch knives, triangular ones, ending in three points per blade. It used the same knife-fighting style he did, with the handle towards the thumb as to increase slashing power. The soaking monstrosity stepped out, and opened its eyes. The diseased orbs, of a pure yellow shade without iris or pupil, bathed the entire room in a gleefully malicious glare.  
  
Wesker waited. Let the infectite make the first move, we already know bullets are relatively ineffective. He took note that where there should've been a bullet wound in the thing's head, there was only slight discoloration. Had to try and slash its brain- rather, its heel. But which one? Have to find out. Time to test those hand-to-hand skills at long last, it had been quite some time since last he used them...  
  
Achilles screeched with grim anticipation, and vaulted towards Wesker. Mighty inhuman leg muscles sealed the distance between the two in no time at all, and as the beast descended it swung its arms towards each other, a neat cross-slash in a beautiful 'X' about to carve itself into Wesker's throat. Three feet from impact, two, one...Wesker however, found the creature to be oddly slow-moving, truly wondering to himself how it could even manage to travel through the air at such a pace. Wasn't that physically impossible? Either way, he read the movements that his foe's arms made- an X slash, eh? Act accordingly. He deftly hurled his blade- baring right hand towards one of the creatures knives, parrying before it even managed to gain much momentum. Halted about an inch from Wesker's neck, something of a close call. His left hand shot out palm-first towards the creature's wrist, which resulted in the second lethal blade being stopped in its tracks.  
  
Bladelock. Or atleast it was, until Achilles, still in midair, brought its legs up towards itself and swiftly kicked off of Wesker's chest. From there the amazingly acrobatic infectite flew into a graceful backflip, landing on its gauze-clad feet and sliding back in the slightest. Perhaps five feet was between the two. Wesker found no choice but to stumble back from the force of that blow, although he was in no pain. Balance was quickly regained, a good thing since the beast was already lunging forth through the air at him again. And, again, it was so slow about it. Odd. The thing had apparently jumped into a spin, as its frame was curled up save the arms, which happened to be going into a spin with enough velocity to make two nasty gashes right through Wesker's armor. Can't allow that.  
  
Of course, the two arms were some distance apart, which was just what the man needed to counter and save his own life. He simply dashed forth to greet the assault, his right arm darting out to preemptively parry the first of the triangular blades with his name on them. Still, this did not halt the Achilles' incredibly spin, which had gathered far more momentum to it than Wesker would've thought. As his steady parrying arm began to lose its steadiness, he decided other action was necessary. The split-second decision was reacted to with a split-second action, Wesker ducked down and went into a spin of his own.  
  
The Achilles' blades passed right over the ducking man as Albert's own knife slid away in a shower of sparks, the monstrosity knowing something was wrong when its twin cutters sliced neatly through air and nothing more. Wesker meanwhile, having whirled 180 degrees, fired out his right leg heel- first like a cannon. His right heel shot through the air, landing squarely on Achilles' chest area, the end result being a concentration of kinetic energy that sent the bladed beast sprawling. If ever there was a time for Wesker to finish it off, this was it.  
  
Achilles found itself crashing over one table, through another, and finally coming to a halt at its final destination, the nearest wall. At the very least it managed to come to a halt with its back to the flat surface, and, with inhuman spite for its first ever opponent, it leapt to its feet for some more punishment. That is, until it re-gathered its bearings and noticed something near its feet. Looking down to analyze the threat, it found the object to be a small, silverish rectangular sort of thing. Then there was light, and a horribly powerful bang. Blinding, horrible light and a burst of sheer cacophony. All it could see it white, all it could hear was a screeching buzz.  
  
And then it heard and felt no more. Wesker, meanwhile, had made a mad dash for the thing, slid along the ground towards it, and gutted both heels in what must've been less than a second. Brain stem was reduced to a mulch, the creature dead instantly, Wesker's slice so clean that it remained standing on its own balance. "Suppose those flashbangs are useful after all." He muttered, not even breathing irregularly. Typically he would be, another mystery which he added onto the growing pile- the most prominent being how everything moved so incredibly slowly today.  
  
He wiped off his blade on the former enemy's gauze wrappings, and sheathed it stylishly. Time to find his damn objective and get the hell out of here already, things were getting too strange- but mainly he just wanted to have a few words with his client...In person. 


	11. Chapter 11

((Wooahh, Black Betty, bamalam. Black Betty had a child, bamalam. It died during childbirth, bamalam. So did she. Bamalam. Atleast I think that's how the song goes, I could be wrong, my memory is less than faithful. I found it cheating on me with my subconscious one day. Anyways, here's some filler  
mater- er, Grade A Hunkage/Mr. Deathness.))  
  
With Willman out of the way, the purging resumed at double the speed- or so it seemed, anyways. Things were always better when he was alone. Always. In school, at home, and now at work. At the very least Umbrella was kind enough to cater to his needs, providing him with a private dormitory, and for the most part his undisturbed pick of the various training courses whenever he requested it. Typically at the oddest hours of the night, as to make sure that no ambitious Willman-types would bother him while he practiced for the sort of mission he was currently on. None of the other soldiers ever questioned how he got the run of the facilities as he did, they all knew a warrior of his caliber was given extra incentives.  
  
The one thing they did question however, was his perpetually glacial visage. How did the man remain so calm, so grimly indifferent all the time? Whenever somebody was bold enough to ask him face-to-face while traversing the halls or something as such, he'd typically reply with a snide glare and keep walking. Nobody was ever persistent enough to ask twice. The truth was something he kept to himself and on a very rare occasion the Umbrella higher-ups. "When you have nothing, you have nothing to fear." He uttered this to himself, the message becoming lost as it passed through the air filters. Hunk was the pinnacle of emptiness; a human void that took no pleasure, no pain, and simply did what he was good at.  
  
Thinking to himself as he quietly opened the door to one of the lab rooms, and paused only to preemptively brace his weapon for whatever may be inside. So far he'd encountered only a lone infectite in scientist clothing, reading glasses still on and covered in caked bloodstains. He had walked in on it consuming one of its own, the victim was infected, but its empty shell of a body was too useless for any movement beyond twitching. The hungry undead paused in mid-bite, looking up to the intruder with a pitiful glance. It uttered a pathetic moan through crimson-stained jaws filled with the flesh of what could've been its friend at some point, and began to rise at the prospect of fresher meat. The only thing it ate was a bullet.  
  
This has made him wonder why they so rarely resorted to eating their own kind, perhaps the desolate being had some sort of intelligence. In all of his experience of dealing with the marauding creatures, he had come to think of them as some sort of de-evolution from the normal human being. They were more intelligent that your average insect, albeit only a little, and seemed to recognize each other. Only on rare occasions had he seen cannibalism among their ranks, this being one of them. He somewhat respected that trait, regarding it as a shallow code of honor among a lesser species. Perhaps they were spiteful towards humans for having what they do not? Well, no matter. He turned the knob and forced his body forth, and the door along with it.  
  
He had been especially on his toes since the Chimera incident, zombies were one thing but the Bio-Organic Weapons, or BOWs as he had come to know them from briefings, were another matter entirely. The zombies were the plastic wrapping that Umbrella through away, and these things were the product inside. This room seemed a bit... Different than the rest. Typical dark laboratory with those stereotypical glass specimen-containing tubes inside, but the security system struck him as a bit odd. A Hunter was launching itself at him from within, its massive green body flying through the air with a surprising amount of finesse, claws descending towards Hunk's armored face. Apparently it knew that armor wasn't about to stop claws that big.  
  
It paused in midair however, and somewhat jerked back violently, falling to the ground in a fit of animalistic hacking and wheezing. The sound accompanying this was a constant rattling of alloy scraping against itself, which, as soon as Hunk paused long enough not to shoot the creature to pieces, was seen to be a chain. The chain long and thick, something like what he imagined docked small ships. This was attached to a heavy metallic collar, which was about the Hunter's throat. The chain was short, just about short enough to allow the Hunter to roam the areas directly in front of the glass-encased test subjects. It seemed to be a series of the evolution of zombies from left to right; the first of five tubes contained what looked like a normal human, albeit a bit pale, but was actually a slimy-skinned monstrosity that craved flesh. Recent infection.  
  
He glanced at the second while the Hunter milled about somewhat sadly, apparently realizing its situation. As his eyes scanned across the various subjects, he soon saw that there were stages of infection worse than what he had ever seen. The last of them was a stringy husk of flesh with jaws that was supposedly capable of moving, capable of spreading not only infection from the T-virus but from countless various bacteria as well. It was a walking cesspool of disease, and near-impossible to stop since it no longer relied on any vital organs. It couldn't have- they must've rotten away by that point. Umbrella had really stumbled onto a scientific wonder here, he somewhat saw how they could do this to other humans... It WAS interesting, after all.  
  
Either way, he challenged himself to kill the Hunter in less than two shots- and pulled this off by aiming for its eyes. Two gory 'splat' sounds later, he found himself compelled to drain the specimen tanks of the preservation fluid within them that kept the picture-esque zombies sustained. They'd rot away soon, if they were dead yet or not. A quick step over the deceased Hunter, another quick step out the door, and onwards to delving further into the labs. 


	12. Chapter 12

((Just to verify, this is where the first chapter left off.))  
  
The two undead shambled forth at him at the speed of slow, he continued to be baffled by how everything was so gradual lately. It had occurred to him that perhaps the airborne contaminants had taken their toll, and this was some sort of side-effect of the infection. Maybe he was becoming one of them, and soon his movements would slow as well? He already seemed to possess greater strength, and, as much as he hated to admit it, things were starting to look as if he was going to be an undead soon. But why would the client set a trap for him like this? They valued his skills, he knew that much. Puzzling.  
  
A muted sigh. All he'd ever wanted was to be something different. Better. Better than human, really. He thought of that as his foremost limitation. "Only human..." He murmured to himself under the disgruntled groaning echoing down the halls. It was depressing, really. This was what he'd worked so hard to become, and it was all he'd ever be. Unknown to the future, and unimportant to the present. Why did he always get depressed like this? Well, no matter. Finish the mission now, think later. That was the mindset of a good soldier. A good soldier... A good, conforming soldier who did nothing but take orders. Another muted sigh.  
  
He hurled himself towards the former-researchers at top speed, deciding to do things as quickly as possible just to get it over with. He brought his arm back towards his neck, and snapped it out again with a great deal of velocity. The end result was the blade lodging itself right into the creature's brain stem, punching right through rotting bone with minimal effort. A quick twist liquefied the core of all the creature's physical activity, killing it for good. By this time the other was grabbing at Albert, who deftly countered its efforts by launching a mighty sidekick towards its face. His right foot, that which was closest to the approaching undead, rocketed out at full speed- his heel met its face, had a disagreement, and knocked the infected's entire head clean off.  
  
Well, hardly clean. Quite messy, in fact. Albert didn't even bother to question how he managed to take it's entire skull off, he simply went with the fact and wiped the bottom of his boot off on the former enemy's clothing. This was followed by the removal of his knife from the other ex- foe, and after that the cleaning of said knife with a now-dirtied rag he kept around for just that. Sheath, stretch, continue walking.  
  
He found it odd that the entire facility had taken a turn like this, moments ago it was lesser Tyrants bearing knives with clean halls and white walls- and now this. One doorway took him deeper underground, where the walls looked worse than the zombies and the place seemed a scene out of hell. The zombies here were far more aged than the ones upstairs, more resembling the true undead of movies he'd seen as a kid than infected former-humans. Perhaps that explained their significant increase in fragility. Seemed logical enough, after all-  
  
His thought was cut off by some crackling in his right ear, yet his peripheral vision found nothing. Radio transmission? At a time like this? Must be some sort of mission update. "Mister Wesker," A cold, snake-like voice with the slightest hint of a reptilian lisp to it. "Are you receiving this transmission, Mister Wesker?" He paused, and adjusted the hands-free microphone slightly. "I'm here." His response, of course, icy. "What do you want." Not even a question, more along the lines of a subtle demand.  
  
"Mister Wesker, it has become apparent to us that you've found the quarantine area of the facility. This, of course, means that you're nearing the 'safe room' we instructed you to find."  
  
Wesker found himself curious, and, knowing his employer always had the latest information on Umbrella, asked something accordingly. "Quarantine area? This entire underground's been safely infected for quite some time, am I to assume?"  
  
The voice on the other end paused, then responded. "That is correct. Umbrella decided to leave it be and seal the area off, as their own former research team provided quite a lot more information in death than they ever did in life. Either way, there is a reason we've contacted you, Mister Wesker. There is something down here you should not fight. Not with guns, not with knives, not with your bare hands. You simply should not fight it."  
  
Wesker found this slightly troubling, they had been kind enough to call him AFTER whatever this thing was could very well be stalking him. For the sake of paranoia, he threw a glance behind his shoulder. Nothing. A vast emptiness, with some stony stairs leading up to the B2 floor he was previously on. "Alright. Any information you can offer me on this thing, perhaps?"  
  
"You'll know it when you see it."  
  
How smug of them. "Alright. I'll head to the 'safe room' and then activate the purge gasses from the floor above me. Wesker out."  
  
With the new information, Wesker half-shrugged to himself. At the very least it would make this formerly one-sided game of survival a little bit more difficult- or at the very least he hoped it would. Speaking of survival, how was that 'Hunk' fellow doing? Wandering about the labs was about as dangerous as it got in these places, although from what he saw the man seemed pretty deadly. Well, no matter. Back to finding this so-called 'safe room'. According to the dossier he read before the mission began, it would be recognizable upon sight. Apparently that was all these people ever had the courtesy to tell him. 


	13. 13

((You people are still reading this? I forgot it existed...Short chapter,  
need to get back to Weskerisms.))  
  
Once again, staring right into the face of death. Or would this be considered post-mortem instead? Well, no need to contemplate the minor details. Hunk pulled the trigger, and sent a single round plowing through the generic zombie's nose. Or rather, what was left of its nose. The cartilage had long since fall off, he might've even stepped on it somewhere along the line. He once again thanked the fact that his suit could be considered proper for dealing with highly infectious materials, and that the boots were thick enough so he'd never have to realize how disgusting half the things he heard squash under his feet were. As the infected collapsed into a tiny heap on the floor, Hunk stepped gingerly over it and surveyed the scene.  
  
Well, it was a familiar one indeed. Big laboratory room, white walls, beakers and chemicals everywhere. This laboratory room however, had some very special qualities to it. Specifically, the small laptop computer resting upon an otherwise-cluttered series of desks and tables. It was sleek, black, and still in pristine condition. It also had the ability to shut the place down for good, that being the entire purpose he was here. The machine was supposed to be along the path the squad captain had taken, but apparently the creature he just slain had located it elsewhere.  
  
Who knew why, with the infectites. Sometimes people could very well go insane with fear at what they were becoming, and did all sorts of stupid things. Did it really matter? Made his task a lot easier, that counted the most. Without hesitation, Hunk's fingers nimbly set about tapping a few keys on the tiny computer. When a gargantuan warning sign popped up on screen, he knew he had found what he needed. Not one to wait even a split second to accomplish his task, Hunk tapped 'y' and initiated the gasflow. The timer set for thirty minutes, ample time to leave the god-forsaken place and board the chopper. Speaking of which...  
  
Hunk activated his radio, built into his helmet for convenience, and was immediately patched through to HQ. Quick service at Umbrella. "Hunk here. Send the chopper our way. I'll be waiting at the pickup point in five minutes." Curt, but the message was clear enough. Get him the hell out.  
  
"And what about the status of your team?" Of course, they had to ask.  
  
"Deceased. I am the sole survivor." Hunk knew this was probably true enough, as the Captain and his two men were undoubtedly low on the ammunition count and wading in diseased bodies. Diseased bodies that didn't care for staying dead.  
  
"Understood, sending you a ride immediately." A pause, followed up by an undeniably icy remark. "Mister Death." The transmission cut off, and Hunk headed for the door. Enough of this mission, it's grown old. 


	14. Nearing the End

((Weskage. That's the shizzite.))  
  
The safe room lived up to its name fairly well. Exceptionally well in fact, he recognized it without even having to give himself a second opinion. From beneath pitch black shades the man stared upon the door. Door? Well, yes, it WAS technically the proper word...The only catch being that this door had an archaic wheel mechanism with gargantuan steel poles jutting out of it in perfect symmetry on the front. This was a vault. Safe room, vault, made ideal sense. What better place to hide whatever it could be he was looking for?  
  
His unimportant thoughts of how exactly to get in were interrupted quite abruptly, at first by static blaring from what must have at some point been a wall-mounted speaker. Seemed to be little more than a few wires and a plastic disc hanging from a rusted alloy corner now, but nonetheless it did its job. As soon as the static cleared, the ever-vigilant and more so ever- calm voice of the announcement system set in. Female, but of course, and with a monotone to it. "The automatic purge system has been activated, and will take effect in thirty minutes. All personnel evacuate the facility through only the emergency exit, as all others have been sealed off to ensure quarantine." This repeated several times before the static overtook it completely, and eventually even that died down.  
  
Wesker, owing the announcement to the competence of that Hunk person, had already long since set to work on getting into that room. The door was tough, impossibly tough it seemed. His C-4 blocks were small and made for dealing with lesser measures, not this pressed steel monstrosity.  
  
The walls surrounding said door however, were quite a different story. A single charge planted just to the left of the giant barrier, on a patch of the typical rusty wall, seemed to make a hole easily large enough for Wesker to get through. He simply planted the charge and detonated it from around a nearby corner via remote, such tiny charges had no need for individual timers.  
  
Figuring that if the suspense didn't kill him whatever lay inside might, Wesker procured his pistol from its appropriate holding place. He first flattened his back to the wall, and turned his neck in such a manner that he could see past the corner he was propped against. There was a smoking hole and some smoke, but nothing his vision couldn't seem to handle on its own, even with the shades most likely hindering his vision in this dark place.  
  
Speaking of which, how WAS it that he could make out all these details in such dark with the addition of his sunglasses? Stranger and stranger, these symptoms became...  
  
Either way, promptly deeming it safe, Wesker dashed hastily over to the miniature crater-in-the-wall where his charge was planted. A quick peek inside revealed a room kept in pristine condition, but more importantly, nothing else. Nothing alive, that is.  
  
Stepping through the hole he found himself...No, that's it. The walls were like mirrors, so all he saw was his own reflection. That was, hands down, the most polished metal he had yet seen. Glancing about whilst simultaneously holstering his firearm, Wesker quickly located what was no doubt the more emphasized aim of his mission. A pedestal of sorts, simple in design, upon it lying a vial of liquid that seemed to be an unfriendly shade of grayish blue.  
  
Extending a partially-gloved hand to pick up the small plastic tube, which of course was sealed tightly, he brought it closer to his shades. There seemed to be a label...The very same label as an archaic model of the T- Virus, or so his recollection seemed to think. Nothing of value...What was the meaning of this?  
  
"Mister Wesker." Stated the earpiece of his headset- or atleast whoever was speaking into it. Again, that indifferent voice, barren of emotion, slightly reptilian lisp. Slow speaking. "Discard that vial at your own jurisdiction. It is...Unimportant to us."  
  
Wesker simply obliged by placing the thing on the pedestal, knowing that somehow his client knew his exact location- and even his movements. Advanced. They must have planted a few devices in his gear, or perhaps even gone so far as to slip some sort of transmitters into his bloodstream. "So tell me then, what exactly am I here for?" He glanced around with a great deal of paranoia, but not a hint of nervousness.  
  
"Exactly as you were ordered. You were told to find the contents of the safe room. And if it's not the vial, then by default it must be..."  
  
Something clicked in Wesker's mind. Setup. He was the only thing in that room- and he was all over the place. Mirrored images of him clones his movements, from the most subtle digit-flexing to the exact lines his skin made when he twisted his neck for a fuller view of the place around him. "Me."  
  
"Quite correct, Mister Wesker...We sent you here to see yourself. Quite an intricate way of doing so, wouldn't you agree? Why don't you take off those shades, and we'll discuss a few things over the radio."  
  
Wesker hesitantly reached a single hand up to the side of his shades, and removed them. In one swift movement they were pocketed.  
  
Then they glared at him. Dozens of eyes, seemingly hundreds, thousands of eyes that weren't his own- couldn't be his own. They were his reflections, yet they HAD to be lies! Those were not his eyes...Those were a beast's eyes. Two spheres that contained untold sicknesses, disease, madness...Power. Intelligence, wit, a hidden agenda...Yes, these were his all right. His acceptance came quickly, logically. Welcomed. The two cat- like orbs of orange hues splashed with crimson stared right into themselves, and liked what they saw.  
  
"Explain anything, Mister Wesker?" The mysterious client inquired.  
  
Wesker merely nodded, a grin slowly tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was going to be a beautiful thing. This one movement, this single revelation, giving him all the answers at once.  
  
As if to verify, the man continues to speak. "Your memory should be coming back to you right about now, Albert. You recall it, don't you? Those lucky fools over at the Spenser estate, you injecting that virus Birkin gave you to avoid an untimely fate...Yes, it's all becoming quite clear now, isn't it? They thought you dead, but we were on the scene to evacuate a promising agent from the flaming jaws of the reaper that day."  
  
As if the man were inside his head, narrating his own thoughts, Wesker simply allowed the flood of memories to soak back into his mind. A raging torrent, but nothing that could shake him. Not considering how good he felt.  
  
"And you no doubt noticed how slowly the world moves now. It's not quite that everything else is slower, but rather you are far faster. The bounds of human flesh can no longer restrain you from your true potential, Mister Wesker. That knife-brandishing tyrant model would have shredded any other to pieces with its raw speed, but you matched it...And even for one that fast, its pseudo-undead muscles are enough to crush bone from impact shock. And yet you held it at bay without breaking sweat. Your new musculature can speak for itself, no?"  
  
Wesker nodded to nobody in particular. Yes, all so entirely clear now.  
  
"You have become something far more than human, Mister Wesker. Your skin is paling, your eyes are becoming more suited to the glacial shadows that your heart generates every waking moment. We have sent you here to show you, first-hand, what you can do with this new power."  
  
Wesker was dumbfounded by a combination of his client's genius and his own newfound might. Yet still, that grin kept expanding.  
  
"To blend in, you may wish to slow down your speech and movements intentionally. Moving on, we are ready to remove you from this place by means of vehicle. We will be waiting by the only exit. Be sure to hurry, as the driver has been instructed to leave five minutes before the acid begins to taint the air."  
  
Wesker simply nodded, and placed his shades back on before making a quick about-face movement, and stepping through the still-smoking crater of an entrance.  
  
Yes, this was no doubt the start of something very beautiful indeed. 


	15. Hunk Closure

(Okay. Wrapping things up. Call this an epilogue for Hunk if you like.  
Keepin' it short.)  
  
Hunk had made his way out of the base fairly easily, the emergency exit markers lead him right to, of course, the emergency exit. Of course, knowing he had an ample amount of time, the fellow had made a few stops along the way. The elevator, for instance. He felt it necessary to, at the very least, put his unskilled former co-workers out of their misery. It was kind of comical in all honesty, the way they shambled towards him. He allowed the suit-clad zombies to come nearer, their mangled bodies still garbed in what he himself was wearing. They grabbed at him, they tried to bite, but the gas masks they wore wouldn't allow it.  
  
Hunk merely laughed at the futile efforts, and took the time to personally club them all into the icy grave that was the metal lab floor. The stock of his weapon was, by this point, dripping a waterfall of greasy humanoid residue. Not a problem. Just another battle trophy to him, in fact. Besides, the weapon, his suit, as well as he himself would be vigorously decontaminated upon immediate return to wherever they felt like stationing him.  
  
The sunlight felt awful once he stepped outside, leaving a miniature hell in his wake. Zombie corpses were strewn left and right, but more often than not he simply went past them. He felt it necessary to leave SOME of them to die to the acid, after all.  
  
The chopper was discreet, nothing at all like the significantly larger military-style one that took them to the place. The pilot, seemingly contemptuous of Hunk, simply handed the man a headset as he removes his gas mask. "It's headquarters. One of the board members wants to talk with you."  
  
Hunk obliged, placing the headset on accordingly. "Yeah." He stated, simply to verify to whoever was on the other end of the conversation that he was there.  
  
"Hunk, we of the board of directors have been paying attention to your...Work, for quite some time now. We feel that a man with your skills has no need to work with others more than is absolutely necessary."  
  
Hunk simply listened.  
  
The aged-sounding man on the other line paused, waiting for a response. Finding none, he continued. "Which is why we feel the need to promote you, Hunk...Or perhaps I should say, Special Agent Hunk."  
  
Hunk, finding this to be no big surprise, simply spoke as coolly as ever. "And where will you be positioning me?"  
  
"Paris headquarters, for now. However, we may have a job for you soon...Out in the Midwest, a place called Raccoon City..." 


	16. It's finally done goddamnit

((Closure for the Wesker. You know it.))  
  
Finding his way out of the complex was nothing short of a privilege, a joy- ride with his newfound ability. And what ability it was. Immediately upon exiting the safe room, he bolted through the rusted corridors at speeds that any observer would describe as an especially large blur. The man was little more than series of afterimages blazing through the area, and yet to him it felt as if he wasn't even trying. Knowing there were more infectites around, knowing there had to be, he began searching previously unexplored areas.  
  
And lo and behold, there were. No pistol necessary, not even the knife. No, he no longer needed to even remotely fear infection. He was simply an exponentially evolved version of them, more or less. He had to give them credit, as if they were martyrs for his own cause. Were it not for these shambling husks of flesh, he would not be alive- and he certainly wouldn't have the ability he did.  
  
Still, they were going to die anyways, and it was hardly as if he cared about the well-being of mindless animals. They could barely sense him, let alone try and grasp at the perpetually-fleeting image that taunted them so. His backhand strikes resulted in zombie-shaped dents in the wall, every graceful kick the man threw having dismembering results. It was beyond beautiful. He slew then left and right, at one point grasping one by the ankles and using it to beat the others down until his corpse-weapon was a string of organs no longer fit even for that.  
  
Overwhelmed with the might, Wesker briefly contemplated turning himself loose, not working for those who would issue him orders any longer. Although it was the life he was accustomed to, and it paid well, with these powers he could-  
  
A transmission sent his train of thought flying off the rails. "Mister Wesker," began the cold voice, "You have finished your task. Go to the pickup point at once. Failure to comply with this will result in immediate termination- we know what you are before you ever found out, do not think we haven't prepared accordingly."  
  
Something about the raw glacial tone told him it was a bad idea to disobey. Normally quite defiant, Wesker promptly recalled just who his client was and reconsidered all his thoughts of running wild.  
  
Near the exit, he had found corpse after corpse slumped against the walls- the elevator was littered with the remains of the Umbrella Squadron. The ominous "Hunk" must've been here, taken the very same path. A commendable man, making it out alive like that.  
  
The chopper was one of those infamous Black Hawk models, distinct thanks to the obvious coloration and especially large sensory equipment concentration protruding from the front. The pilot never said a thing, but rather began the vertical take-off procedure immediately after Wesker stepped foot into it.  
  
Was it the money that satisfied him the most, or the power? Easy answer, money could be acquired anywhere, but this, this sudden feel of being indestructible, was priceless.  
  
It was true then, what he had heard. Government workers really did get great benefits. 


End file.
